Matt Eaton - Blank

In the meantime, several questions remained unanswered. With the shutdown of the Others’ psychic defence system a mental fog in Luckman’s reasoning had also lifted. For the past several hours a question had begun to crystallise, one he knew he should have asked several days ago.

“Hey Pat, something is bugging me. Why was Clarence Paulson the only person in Alice Springs to lose his memory from the Sunburst?”

“He thought he was immune to its effects. And he didn’t trust the Others, so he chose to stay behind.”

“What would make him think he was immune?”

“Beats the bejesus biscuits out of me,” Pat admitted. “It’s the only time I’ve ever known him to be wrong about something.”

“That’s one helluva time to make a bad judgment call,” said Warrington.

“Which is sort of my point,” said Luckman. “He was utterly convinced he alone would remain unaffected. Why?”

“Why do you care?” asked Warrington.

“I dunno.”

“Don’t worry about it now,” Pat told him. “You’re dead on your feet. Get some rest.”

The wind was so strong it almost knocked him over. The sky was grey. The whole world was grey, like it should be raining, but the air was tinder dry. He was on a rooftop. There was a crack that ran through the centre of the building, a catastrophic flaw that surely indicated imminent collapse.

He realised the structure was swaying like it would topple at any moment. Something about it was familiar; he’d been here before. The arc of the exterior finally jogged his memory. He was standing in the middle of a perfect circle. It was the roof of the Focal building.

A perfect circle. The words echoed in his head like they ought to mean something.

He knew he needed to get to her before the building collapsed, but he couldn’t remember which part of the circular structure he should descend to get to her apartment.

He looked around for his ropes. Panic rose in his chest as he realised he didn’t have any with him.

What was he thinking? How did he hope to rescue her from a perfect circle without the necessary equipment?

He peered over the side and immediately felt the building tilt toward the ground like some terrifying fairground thrill ride. But this was no ride, this was the real thing. Buildings don’t tilt.

Except then it swung back the other way.

Another crack appeared beneath his feet. He chanced another look toward the ground below. The ocean had receded. He looked toward the horizon. The waterfront was a long way off but the ocean looked as if it was fighting fiercely to regain the advantage.

Directly below him in place of the water was a sea of humanity. Tens of thousands of people were beating against the base of the building like their lives depended on it. They were the ones shaking the building. Didn’t they realise they were going to kill him? Scores of them were climbing towards him, lifting themselves higher and higher, one balcony at a time. Some of them were almost at the top. He watched in horror and fascination as one young man lost his footing and fell to the ground.

But there were others. They would reach him soon.

All of them looked up at him. They were calling out to him, trying to get his attention. Desperate for his help. But he didn’t know how to help them. He felt suffocated by the weight of their need. He sensed it would quickly turn to anger when they found out he could do nothing for them.

He had to get inside the building. He hung out as far as he could to view the floor below. It would be hard without a rope but what other choice did he have? He climbed onto the concrete roof ledge and lowered himself so that he was hanging by his hands. He realised at once he had made a terrible mistake. His feet were the only part of his legs that extended into the cavity of the penthouse balcony. He had no room to swing. The best he could hope for would be to crash into the railing below and probably break his legs in the process. But it was far more likely he would merely glance off the building and fall to his death.

“Stone – help us.”

It was Mel’s voice. He looked up. She was right above him on the rooftop. He felt her hand on his. But she was lifting his fingers, loosening his grip on the roof ledge.

“Help me,” she repeated.

“No help me,” yelled someone else.

Faces everywhere on the roof now. Reaching out to him, clawing at his hands as if they had no regard for his safety. As if all they wanted was to touch him.

He heard something snap. He realised it was one of his fingers. But he felt no pain.

“I got one,” someone yelled. Luckman finally lost his hold on the building and began to plummet toward the ground.

He was awoken by the surge of adrenalin that accompanied the rising fear of impact. He opened his eyes just as the people on the ground were close enough to touch.

Mel had joined the chorus of his nightmare.

He rolled over slowly and heard something crumpling under the weight of his body. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

Her note. He unfolded the paper and read it again.

The answer you seek is highward firestone

It still meant nothing.

He heard a delicate tap on the door. It opened slowly and Pat popped his head into the room. “I heard you calling out. You OK?”

“Bad dream.” He showed Pat the note. “Does this mean anything to you?”

“Firestone. Father Clarence said that’s the old name for white gold.”

“The old name?”

“He said it’s what the ancient Sumerians called it.”

Gold. Was that the link? “The police post-mortem report said Father Paulson was consuming this white gold of yours. Any idea why he’d do that?”

Pat reacted with alarm. “No.”

“I’m guessing no-one else in Alice Springs sprinkles gold dust on their Weet-Bix. This has to be why Paulson thought he was immune to the Sunburst.”

“But it didn’t work,” Pat reminded him. “Clarence still lost his memory.”

“Yes but he later regained it, didn’t he?” said Luckman. “What if the gold isn’t a preventative medicine – what if it’s a cure?”

Pat smiled in understanding and ran to the study. He returned moments later with a white vial that glowed like it contained a sliver of sunlight.

Luckman held the vial close as he sat down beside Mel on the lounge. Pat sat next to her on the other side. Warrington maintained a safe distance, steeling herself to act if something went terribly wrong. Luckman removed the stopper from the vial, covered the mouth of the tube with his finger and tipped it upside down, coating the tip of his finger in a small glowing disc of white. He slowly brought his finger to Mel’s lips.

“Open wide,” he cajoled, poking out his own tongue as an example.

She did as he asked.

“For God’s sake no sudden movements,” he urged the others. “I don’t wanna lose a digit.”

He rubbed the gold across the surface of her tongue. She appeared to enjoy the sensation. Job done, he extracted his finger quickly.

Mel gasped urgently for air as if in surprise, then poked out her tongue.

“I think she wants more,” said Warrington.

Mel nodded, eyes alert now. She had understood.

“More,” she insisted.

It was the first intelligible word she had spoken since losing her memory.

Luckman and Pat stared at each other in amazement.

“So give her some more,” Pat urged.

They heard a heavy vehicle coming to a halt outside the house. Truck doors slammed as boots hit the ground.

There was a knock on the front door. Luckman stoppered the vial of white gold and handed it to Pat.

“You better make yourself scarce,” Luckman told him.